Though You Are Grown
by DeejayMil
Summary: Mycroft remembers when Sherlock was a squalling baby. Even hours old, he's already worrying about him. Constantly. Five times Mycroft feared for Sherlock's life, and one time he didn't. Turnabout is fair play, Sherlock.
1. I remember, years ago

_I remember years ago,__  
__you were so little then._

* * *

Mycroft was seven when his baby brother was born, and he knew as soon as he saw the small, strange face surrounded by a mop of slimy curls, that he loved him more than anything he'd ever loved before.

Sherlock, in a fashion that Mycroft would later look back on and sigh, was only hours old and already showed a stubborn disregard for his own safety. Mycroft watched as the nurses fussed frantically over the tiny, silent body, 36 weeks old and already charging headfirst into situations he wasn't ready for.

Mummy was still sleeping, worn out by the stress of the early birth and the frantic rush to save her youngest son's life. Mycroft stood by his Father's side, eye's wide as he observed the going on's around him.

"What's his name, Papa?" Mycroft whispered, longing to slip his hand into his Father's large, warm palm, and have him hold him close. His heart felt as though it was lodged in his throat, and the promises of a baby brother to love and protect suddenly seemed as though they were going to be snatched away from him before he'd had a chance to have them.

Father was silent, his face as unchanged as it had been for hours. Mycroft was the dutiful son, never a word out of place, quietly making his parents and teachers proud of him with his polite charm and exceptional marks. But Mycroft was always watching, using his inherited gift of intelligence to form conclusions and deductions about those around him.

So he knew that the brother his Mother had given birth too was not his Father's, knew about the affair that had led to the conception of the boy that Father referred to as "that child." He knew about the whispered arguments, the empty side of Mother's bed, the accusations and growing coldness between his parent's, even though he was never witness to them. He saw it in the way Mother poured him his morning juice, the snap of the paper as Father read the business section, the frayed hems of Father's once meticulously cared for shirts.

And Mycroft, like the dutiful son he was, had always tiptoed around speaking of his soon-to-be brother with his Father. Bother that, Mycroft thought angrily. He's _my_ brother, and I don't want him to die without a name.

Father glanced at him, noting all the things that Mycroft wasn't saying. He was a hard man, a cold calculating man who was ruthless with his business associates, luke-warm at the best with his wife, and brisk with his only son. In his own way, however, he did love Mycroft, as much as he could. He could see the petulant jut of Mycroft's bottom lip, the quiver in his chin, and the fear in the eyes that gleamed with tightly held back tears. He relented, slightly, and in what would become one of the handful of times he acknowledged his wife's bastard son, he named him.

"Sherlock." He glanced at the baby, struggling for life. "His name is Sherlock."

Mycroft nodded once, and scuffed his meticulously polished shoe against the linoleum. He wouldn't speak another word about Sherlock until the day, weeks later, that Mother finally brought him home, a squalling, ill-tempered baby, but to himself he swore that if his brother lived, no harm would ever come to him as long as Mycroft still breathed.


	2. Sometimes I wish you were small again

_Sometimes,__  
__I can't help but wish,__  
__that you were small again._

* * *

The day Sherlock fell through the ice had started off with a bang. To be precise, the bang of his new chemistry set exploding as he carefully tested his the effects of household chemicals mixed with his school supplies. The study that the two of them shared had been rendered uninhabitable by the fumes, and after a dire scolding from the cook, they were told to amuse themselves outside.

Mycroft, who had been enjoying the book he was reading, expressed his displeasure with his seven year old brother by ignoring him completely, except to instruct him not to forget his coat, and hiding in the greenhouse with his book and a nice cup of tea.

Sherlock, who had grown into the exact opposite of his brother, rude where Mycroft was unfailingly polite, loud where Mycroft was quiet, and with a constant need to always be moving, had followed Mycroft demanding that his brother help him experiment with the frozen over pond. Mycroft shook his head, knowing that any experiment of Sherlock's would end with Mycroft in his Father's office being lectured about responsible behaviour and not letting his brother lead him astray, and Sherlock in bed without a word of reproach or supper.

So he had told Sherlock he would help him, waited until the scrawny boy had run off to get the material's, and then he had slipped into the greenhouse and latched the door. Sherlock would never be able to see him through the thick foliage, it was close enough to the lake that he could listen for screams or bangs, and even if Sherlock deduced where he was, the glass had long since been Sherlock-proofed.

After all, it wasn't fair that Mycroft was the only one who ever got in trouble, Mummy never dealt with the unpleasantness of discipline, and to scold Sherlock, Father would have to first speak to the child. So Mycroft was expected to hold his brother in line, and that was something that was easier said than done. He did as well as could be expected, it had been years since Sherlock had managed to sneak dead animals into the house, and he no longer told guests that their significant others were cheating on them. But at fourteen, Mycroft was really much too old to be babysitting the diminutive genius.

* * *

The day might have gone rather well for the household, which had long ago come to the conclusion things ran much smoother when Sherlock was out of the picture, if in a fit of betrayed rage, Sherlock had taken his fury out on his brother by changing the boundaries of his experiment. In what was going to be a test of how much acid did it take to melt the ice sufficiently to cause minor structural damage to the integrity of the surface, using Mycroft and three sturdy plants of wood and a pile of bricks as weight on the ice, now the only variable was Sherlock himself.

Who, muttering angrily to himself, had given up on the nonsense safety precautions his stickler brother insisted on, and had kicked the acids onto the ice, walking out and stomping on the glass jars just to be certain. The acids, bought for him by a Mother who was well aware of his son's temper, weren't even concentrated enough to melt the ice at all, and the glass stubbornly refused to break. Sherlock had suspected this, and stomped a few more times just to vent his displeasure with his mother as well.

The ice, however, had already been weakened by a unseasonably warm few days, and the stomping child was almost more than it could take.

"Stupid, fat, Mycroft," stormed Sherlock, each word punctuated by a stomp of his booted foot. "Arrogant, lazy, obtuse IDIOT." The last word was followed by a crack that echoed around the snowy grounds, and with a squealing, cut-off yelp, Sherlock disappeared.

Mycroft heard the crack, followed by the cry, and he felt his heart leap into his throat in a way it hadn't since Sherlock had jumped through the glasshouse wall in pursuit of imaginary pirates. Both the book and his tea tumbled to the floor, and in a surprising show of speed and agility the mostly sedentary teen sprinted to the door, almost offering a repeat of that performance by crashing through it in his haste.

The short distance between the greenhouse and the lake he covered in seconds, moving with a speed that the stunned gardener, who was shouting for help and running for the lake himself, albeit slower, would have never suspected Mycroft was capable of.

Mycroft didn't waste breath with shouting for help, he skidded out onto the ice, moving jerkily as he tried not to panic, fear battling with shock and threatening to unman him. He scanned the ice frantically, searching for a flash of colour, the bright green coat that had been a present for his brother last Christmas, anything that would show where his brother was.

He couldn't see anything, and seconds ticked away. He staggered slightly, feet slipping, hearing the ice shift slightly under him and realizing that he was putting himself into danger as well. It didn't matter though, if he couldn't save his brother, falling through the ice would be a blessing. He couldn't see the ice anymore, only Sherlock's bright, trusting gaze, his cheeky, lopsided smile and the way he lisped slightly when he said, "Mycroft."

He tried to scream his brother's name, hearing running steps from the house, but nothing but a croak came out and he couldn't speak, couldn't shout, couldn't breathe. He froze, eyes locked on the ice, his panic the only thing stopping him from shattering the shifting ice beneath his feet.

"Mycroft! Get down! Don't move!" He could hear, as though from a great distance away, his Father shouting, yelling for him. Worrying about him but not his brother, only Mycroft would grieve for the lost child. He turned his eyes, to look at his Father accusingly, and then he saw it, a flash of green against the ice.

"THERE!" He roared, pointing, and lunging forward, kicking at the ice that cracked beneath him, desperately slithering towards the spot. The gardener, axe in hand, got there first, bringing the handle down HARD on the spot just to the left of the splash of colour, reaching into the frigid water, and dragging out a tangle of soaked clothes, limp limbs and matted curls.

Mycroft reached them the same time his Father did, reaching for Sherlock's pale hand even as his Father grabbed his shoulder and yanked him off the ice and away. He forced him to the ground as Mycroft fought him like a man possessed, screaming abuse and struggling to reach him brother, still and cold beneath the servant trying to bring life back into blue lips.

The world exploded into pain and stars as Mycroft fell, face stinging from his Father's blow. The man stood over him, eyes cold with rage, hand still clenched into a fist as his son quivered below him. "Don't be a fool, Mycroft," spat the older man. "You can't do anything, whether he lives or dies, this behaviour is not becoming for a Holmes!"

Mycroft would dearly have loved to tell him that if that's what it meant to be a Holmes, than he could shove his family name somewhere unmentionable. To scream at his Father that the only thing that mattered to him, the only person he truly loved without bounds, was the child lying prone on the frozen ground. But he didn't. He contented himself with standing and glaring at his Father with a gaze that didn't waver, even as his cheek begun to swell, and shoved past him, striding towards his brother.

Sherlock begun to cough, throwing up frigid lake water and gasping as pain from several broken ribs begun to cut through the numbing coldness. Mycroft didn't take his eyes from him, noting the colourless skin and tremors that wracked the tiny body. Something loosened in his chest, a knot of worry that was almost constantly there, a knot named Sherlock. It was no longer so large it choked him into a panic, like it had as he stood on the ice, but it was still there.

He knew that his Father could see the way he looked at his brother, with eyes that glowed with love and fear, a look that he carefully hid so it couldn't be used against him. Work undone in the course of an afternoon. As he walked towards his brother, his Father called out the last advice he would ever give his oldest son. "Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft."

* * *

Later, while visiting his brother in the hospital, already worked up to a frenzy of energy with no outlet, Mycroft told Sherlock that their parents had had a terrible row after the ambulance left, when Father refused to take the car up to visit him, and Mother had objected. Father had packed a bag and left, and that would be the last they saw of him. Sherlock smiled and said rude things that Mycroft secretly agreed with.

Before he left, he gave his brother a purple scarf and a promise that when he was released, Mycroft would be there. Sherlock beamed at him. "I love you, My," he lisped.

Mycroft wondered how to explain to his brother that he loved him so much that sometimes he felt his heart would burst, or if it was proper to do so. "I love you too, Sherlock."


	3. I've cried when you've faced heartaches

_I've cried when you've faced heartaches,_  
_and saw, that as you grew,_  
_nothing broke your Spirit,_  
_instead it strengthened you._

* * *

The knot was back. The terrible, choking panic that Mycroft had learnt only to ever associate with his little brother. He sprinted up the hall, panting with exertion, feeling as though he was running through custard. Only for his brother, he thought. The only times he moved like this, it was always for Sherlock. One day, he wasn't going to be fast enough... He prayed to whoever was listening that it wasn't today.

* * *

The young man, a strong contender in London politics at the time, had spent the last ten years working hard on his career, perhaps to the neglect of his family. He and Sherlock had not so much drifted apart over the last decade. Mycroft had fond memories of their time together their last holiday before he left for college, but when he had returned several months later, it was to a scowling stranger, glaring balefully at him with pale eyes.

Sherlock hadn't spoken to him since, except to comment on his diet, or lack there-of. Mycroft hadn't heard anything from him that wasn't snark in years, and he had given up hope of ever being called My again.

Family dinners had been exciting, rather like dining with an angry bear, and Mycroft had almost been glad the year that Sherlock had moved out of Mummy's, and into his own place. At least he could visit her now without putting up with the wailing screech of a tormented violin, which their Mother swore that Sherlock could actually play, although Mycroft had never heard anything to prove this. Sherlock was rather lacking in what many would call grace, and his movements often looked as though he was moments from falling in a tangle of arms and legs.

Relief which held right up until Sherlock stopped visiting them at all. Three months went by without a sign of him, until Mycroft had gone to the flat and belted the door down, dragging the young genius by his collar to visit their hysterical Mother, who had decided that her youngest was dead in a gutter and wouldn't be told otherwise.

Sherlock had been silent the whole visit, staring at the floor as though he could burn his way through it with the sheer force of his aggressive personality. Talk and lanky, he sprawling across the couch in the sitting room, limbs askew, just generally being dramatic. He was out the door before farewells had even been issued, and that was the last they saw of him for almost six months.

Mycroft was not overly surprised to find that the flat he had paid for had been empty for weeks when he went there, but what he was surprised to find was that his brother had almost literally dropped off the face of the Earth. There was no sign of him anyway, and Mycroft was concerned to find that among Sherlock's college companions, none of them were close to him, and he had no one he could call a friend.

The descriptions he received from teachers and students were unflattering and slightly alarming. Mycroft was well aware of his brother's faults, he was stubborn, arrogant, decidedly too clever for his own good and with an ego the size of London. He had expected complaints about Sherlock's deductions, about the unfailingly rude way he spoke, his casual disregard for everyone around him, and his penchant for barely tolerating safety procedures.

What he had not been expecting was them to tell him that the youngest Holmes rarely spoke a word, had marks so low as to be almost at failing point, and that most of the lecturers were of the opinion that he was an average, slightly dim-witted student. Mycroft stared at the first lecturer to say this, one eyebrow raised in displeasure, and silently contemplated having the man fired. For surely he was the first to ever call Sherlock Holmes _stupid_.

However, after the fourth professor to repeat the same, Mycroft had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Years of working in politics meant that very little of what he felt reached his face, and his Father's eyes, cold and grim, were only slightly offset by his natural charm. He left that day leaving behind several shaken teachers and students, all of whom were wondering a lot more about their quiet, anti-social classmate.

Sherlock hadn't been seen at the school for days now. One student in particular had caught Mycroft's eye, shifting on his feet as he spoke, and refusing to make eye contact. Mycroft sought him out alone.

Oh how he despised legwork, he thought angrily to himself, waiting to cut the boy off on his walk home, leaning on his umbrella. One day, he decided, he would have lackeys to do this work for him. One would have to have lackeys to keep up with Sherlock. The boy ambled along, not noticing him until the last minute, when the tall Holmes brother slid into step alongside him.

"My brother, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said pleasantly, his eyes boring into the young man's with all the ice and fire he could muster. The boy quailed beside him. "I want to know where he is. And I should have known this morning. You're going to tell me." It wasn't phrased as a question.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he had an address. He pulled up outside the dilapidated house, disgruntled to realize that he had been beaten to it by none other than London's finest.

The trick to fitting in anywhere was to act as though you had every right to be there, and although Mycroft was still a young man, he cut an imposing figure in his fine suit as he strode towards the crime scene.

His calm face betrayed none of the anxiety he felt. _If this is anything like the Carl Powers case..._ he thought to himself. It had taken him all of his contacts to extract Sherlock from that situation, and he didn't look forward to doing so again.

It never occurred to him that he could leave his brother to work out his own problems.

Mycroft decided from the outset that there was no point hoping that Sherlock wasn't firmly entangled in this mess. "What's going on here?" he barked at a young constable, still green about the ears and easily intimidated.

Or so he had thought. The constable turned to face him, and glared straight back. He had been given the task of holding the perimeter, and he had no intentions of shirking his duty. Blue eyes met brown, and Mycroft decided very quickly that this was an officer who wouldn't stay constable long.

The silence stretched out, and Mycroft huffed a sigh to himself. "Mycroft Holmes. I'm looking for my little brother."

The constable hesitated. "In there? Your brother into that sort of thing?" Mycroft stayed silent, mind racing over itself as he drew a sudden, unpleasant conclusion. The constable's mouth shifted into an unhappy grimace. "Drugs bust. You err..." he hesitated, looking around. "You could probably get in and get him out, quick like. Just this once."

Mycroft allowed himself to look startled. "You'd help me? A man you've just met?"

The constable shrugged. "I'm a copper. I help people, it's what I'm paid to do. Apparently. And those in that house, they need all the help they can get. If you find your brother, he'll get help?"

Half an hour ago, Mycroft had been blissfully unaware that his brother had even an inkling of a drug problem, he wasn't quite willing to give up the notion that this was one of Sherlock's experiments, quickly forgotten. "Yes," he answered simply, ducking past and into the house. "Thank you."

The constable nodded and winked at him, turning back to scan the area. He hoped that the smartly dressed man was quick in dragging his brother out, although with the inherit shoddiness of the current police team, he doubted there would be much of an issue.

"Lestrade!" he heard his superior bark, and he sighed. Apparently he was coffee boy.

"Not my division," he muttered darkly to himself.

* * *

That was the first time Mycroft had seen his brother high, and since then, it had never lost its horror. There was something about Sherlock's eyes when he was on cocaine that chilled him to the bone. The pupil blown so wide there was only a bare sliver of blue around the edges, but it was the way Sherlock acted while high that caused Mycroft's teeth to grate.

Sherlock had always been a tightly wound spring, coiled and ready to leap into action. Even asleep he moved constantly, buzzing with pent up energy. He hadn't quite grown into his body that was more long than tall, and his movements were often jerky and awkward, but always dramatic.

While high, Sherlock was still. Still and careful, moving with a ferocious grace that terrified Mycroft, not that he would ever let his brother know. Touching him caused Mycroft's skin to itch unpleasantly, and around the fourth time he had been forced to drag his brother home to come down, he had given up and delegated the task to his lackeys. Sherlock had never quite forgiven him for that, and if anything, their relationship was even more strained.

* * *

However, five years after the first time Mycroft found his brother off his face in a crack-den, when he received the phone call from the recently promoted Detective Lestrade alerting him to an OD matching his brother's description, it wasn't his lackeys that Mycroft sent.

He sprinted up the hall, panting, face shiny with sweat and looking undone in a way he hadn't since his teen years. Lestrade tried to stop him as he barrelled towards the door hiding his brother, but he shoved past the man, and slammed the door open.

Sherlock arched his head backwards, and lazily opened one eye to gaze at the door, pupil's wide and a self-satisfied smirk on his arrogant face. He had lost weight, lots of it, Mycroft noted, trying to pull himself together, but Sherlock already had all the ammunition he needed.

"False alarm, Brother-Mine," he drawled in his low baritone, scratchy and harsh with disuse. Sherlock was filthy and half-way towards being ill, but alive. Alive and not as unwell as reports had led him to believe. "You still have to share the inheritance. Oh wait..." he paused for dramatic effect, closing the one eye again and reclining, ever so smoothly. Mycroft barely restrained a shiver. "I've already been disowned. Lucky you."

Mycroft took two steps towards his brother, and grabbed his arm. Sherlock didn't even bother to hide the track marks, and Mycroft prayed he was being safe. The fear was replaced with an anger he rarely felt, and didn't bother to mask. Sherlock stared at him in shock, eyes locked on the fingers wrapped tightly enough around his arm to bruise. Mycroft wondered when was the last time anyone had touched him.

He snarled, forcing all his anger and fear and, yes, hatred, hatred for this creature posing as his brother, out into the open.

"This ends now, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "I hate you," he muttered.

"Often I find the feeling is mutual, Brother."


	4. I'm filled with mixed emotions

_I'm filled with mixed emotions,__  
__as I hold back all the tears__  
__and, with much pride remember,__  
__back so many years._

* * *

He supposed he should be glad his brother had finally gotten himself a hobby, God knows he needed one. Something to distract him from the longings that Mycroft knew still plagued him.

Sherlock had taken to referring to him as his 'archenemy', a term that Mycroft found almost unbearably dramatic. Everything about the tall genius was almost unbearably dramatic, he supposed he'd might as well give up fighting it. They were old enough now that they needn't squabble like children.

Of course, once he was actually in the same room as his obnoxious younger sibling, it was rather hard to remember their dignified ages.

"Consulting detective? That doesn't even exist, Sherlock!" Mycroft stood in the hallway of the dingy apartments that Sherlock had stubbornly insisted upon staying in. He knew his brother didn't like the awful place, what with the shoddy hot water and lights that flickered oddly, but he stayed there simply to annoy his brother, who had offered him many more suitable arrangements.

His brother, who was holding the doorframe and stubbornly blocking him access into the flat, scowled. He was wearing shabby pajamas and his blue dressing gown, with his messy hair standing in spikes around his head, it just wasn't becoming for a Holmes. It was almost as bad as when he'd thrown out all his suits and worn nothing but shirts and tatty jeans for months on end, protesting _something_. "It does now. I invented it," he retorted. "I don't need your approval, _Mycroft_." The last word he spat out, as though it physically pained him. Mycroft barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Besides, we all know you're just jealous."

Mycroft choked indignantly. "Jealous? Of you and your made up job? Hardly!"

His brother's smirk was smug. "You're just upset you didn't think of making your job up. Mycroft Holmes, consulting... cake-eater. You're getting fatter, Brother. They'll need to invent a government position for your girth soon, if you're not careful."

Mycroft gripped his umbrella tightly, feeling the back of his neck redden. He would not allow his brother to see how angry he was, although he had no doubt that Sherlock could tell by the way his cuffs were tied or something equally ridiculous. "Fine! Have your silly detective work, Miss Marple! But don't expect any help from me until you've come to your senses and taken a real job! I'm cutting you off, I won't pay for your silly flights of fancy or this disgusting... I won't even call it an apartment! It's a hovel!"

Sherlock spluttered in fury. "You can't, it's my money!"

"No, Brother. You were disowned. It's up to me as to whether or not you get your grubby paws on any of it, and until you prove you're old enough to handle it, it's mine to withhold."

He actually thought Sherlock might hit him. Eyes wide with anger, his brother took a step towards him and Mycroft tensed, waiting. "I can't live on nothing Mycroft, I can help people doing this!"

"You don't care about people, Sherlock. You never have. Why should I believe you've started now?"

Sherlock didn't hit him, just stared at him. "I won't give this up, Mycroft. This is my chance, you don't understand. This isn't _boring_."

Mycroft saw his chance to issue an ultimatum, one that his brother would never agree with. "Fine. Stay as you are and starve." His brother's eyes narrowed again, and Mycroft continued quickly," or...have your 'consulting detective work' and reduced access to your trust fund."

"Reduced? You said you'd cut me off, not reduce it." Sherlock was waiting for the catch, and Mycroft allowed himself a moment to bask in the younger man's discomfort. But not too long, that would be childish. "Do hurry up Mycroft, I can hear your stomach growling and I'm worried you might just get hungry and eat me if you wait much longer."

"You find a new flat-"

"I won't be able to afford better on a reduced-"

"And a flatmate." Silence. Sherlock actually took a step back, as though he had been slapped.

"A... what?!"

"You keep your money, albeit a smaller amount, you get a nicer flat, and you get your... experiment. What's to dislike about that, Sherlock?"

"I cannot, you can't... I won't!"

"Then starve. Or come work for me. I would so enjoy having you around, Brother. Working with me, we'd together... _constantly._" He knew he'd won. He could see it on his brother's face. Sherlock just didn't know it yet.

His only answer was the door slamming in his face. He imagined he could hear the thump of Sherlock throwing himself onto his threadbare couch in a huff, and allowed himself a smirk. Turning smartly on his heel, he nodded to the neighbour peeking curiously out of her door, and strode towards the exit.

Anthea waited by the car, face impassive, tapping away on her phone. "How did it go, Sir?"

"Wonderfully. I'll have a reply by tomorrow, I should imagine." He could smell something delicious in the car, and felt a small curl of contentment. Anthea truly was a godsend, worth every penny. He must send a wine to the man who'd recommended her, she was proving irreplaceable.

Anthea glanced up at the darkened window of Sherlock's apartment, and didn't reply. Mycroft could see the doubt in her eyes. "He's stubborn, not stupid. I can't think where he got this pigheadedness from, it's proving to be a bother."

His assistant had a face of pure innocence as she looked back at him, eyes widened just so. "I can't imagine it either, sir. Truly a mystery."

Oh yes. He really did like this one.

* * *

Hours later, Mycroft cursed the nameless man who'd contributed the necessary elements to create the one and only Sherlock Holmes. He cursed his mother, he cursed Lestrade, but most of all, he silently railed against the God who'd _dared_ have the _audacity_ to make this insufferable _PRICK _his problem!

Anthea stared at him, having not had the misfortune to deal with what Mycroft referred to as a 'Code Sherlock's Done Something Stupid Again'. "The message did not say what had happened, sir. Just that there was an incident with a criminal and your brother was involved, a DI Lestrade sent it to me." She paused. "He's at Barts. Lestrade said he was asking for you."

Mycroft felt his gut twist. "Asking for me? I doubt that. Call for the car, we leave immediately."

"Sir... the meeting?"

"Cancel it."

"Very well, it will be ready at your pleasure."

He really hoped Sherlock hadn't actually asked for him. If he had, then he was most certainly dying. Surely they would have told him if that was so...

The drive to Barts had never been so long before, with Mycroft rigid with tension, gripping his umbrella so tightly his knuckles were white, and Anthea fielding dozens of calls from assistants of people he'd cancelled. "I'd hate to break this lovely tension, sir," Anthea said, eyes not leaving her phone. "But I implore that you don't cancel your 3 o'clock... national security and all that."

"We'll see," Mycroft murmured, voice tight. Anthea nodded, although he wasn't sure whether she knew what he meant.

He just needed to see if Sherlock was ok. That was all. He wasn't chasing after his brother, he was just ensuring that he was still breathing. And if they had to endanger their relationship with one of their closest allies to do so, well so be it.

* * *

Sherlock was fine. He wasn't even concussed, and was positively furious with his entrapment at the hospital. Mycroft frowned when he realized he'd been led there on false pretences, while the DI tried not to smirk.

"He was being a prick," Lestrade admitted. "I can't have him chasing the criminals without backup." He caught what he'd said, as Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and changed it quickly. "Can't have him chasing criminals, is what I meant. I wanted to show him exactly what I'd do if he did it again." His expression was rueful, guilty at using Mycroft as a punishment for misbehaviour.

Mycroft liked Lestrade, he liked how the copper treated his brother, and how steady he was. But he wouldn't tolerate a Holmes, any Holmes, throwing himself into danger like this. He tried not to think about how he was still chasing Sherlock around, the same as he had when they were little. Any Holmes at all, he told himself. Not just the tall, snarky ones.

"You need him, don't you?" he asked. Lestrade hesitated, still cautious around the elder Holmes, although not as much as he used to be.

"Yes," was the murmured reply. "God, yes we do. I wish we didn't, but we solves more crimes, faster, and save more lives with him around. Although I wish he wouldn't antagonize my team." He looked Mycroft in the eye, without flinching. Another thing he liked about the detective, not many people would make eye contact with him like that. "He's a great man, Mycroft."

Mycroft laughed, coldly. "Yes, perhaps. But not a good one I shouldn't think. Very well. Although I would appreciate not being bothered for... trivialities in the future."

Lestrade laughed and nodded assent, but there was a gleam to his eye that boded ill for his promise. Mycroft ignored it in favour of a dignified exit, striding into Sherlock's room.

* * *

He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but honestly. Throwing his chart at his head was hardly warranted. "Sherlock, you are a grown man! For God's sake, act your age!" The portly man standing next to Sherlock's bed with a panicked expression, flinched as the chart clattered to the floor. Mycroft immediately dismissed him as unimportant.

Sherlock snarled. "Mycroft, I cannot believe that I've having the pleasure of your company twice in one day. Honestly, next he'll send Anderson in here to serenade me and I DON'T NEED BACK-UP, I WORK FASTER ALONE."

Mycroft assumed the last statement was aimed at Lestrade, and ignored it."New addition to the agreement. You don't charge in alone."

A snort from his brother. "You'd believe me if I said fine?"

"No. But humour me. It helps me sleep at night."

"Perhaps you'd sleep better if you weren't stuffing yourself constantly while awake."

"Sherlock."

"... Fine. I agree. I'l get a _flatmate!_" He sounded as though Mycroft had just told him to go and hug their Father. "But it's my choice." A pause. "Honestly, Mycroft, you'd have me for a flatmate?" A choked noise from the man drew Mycroft's attention back to the stranger. He didn't say anything, just looked at him.

The man, a doctor by the look of him, looked put out by suddenly having Mycroft's attention directed at him. "Never mind me, heard Sherlock had landed himself in here and came to have a gander." Sherlock glared at him. "Mike, Mike Stamford." He moved and thrust a hand out. Mycroft shook it carefully, disliking the man's proximity.

"Holmes, Mycroft." The man's eyes widened.

"Jeez, there's another one. Didn't know _you_ had a brother, Sherlock."

"Add it to the list of things you don't know, Stamford." The man sighed.

"A beating didn't add to your manners, I see. At least some things stay the same." Neither of the brother's answered him, too busy glaring at each other. "I'll just show myself out."

"We've come to an agreement then," Mycroft asked, glancing at his watch. "Time is short." Sherlock glared and nodded, a tiny movement Mycroft almost missed. He assumed that, being Sherlock, he was going to have to deal with a dose of the silent treatment simply for forcing his brother to see it his way. "Good afternoon then, brother. I expect you'll contact me when a suitable flatshare is found."

He paused at the door, and without looking back, called out," Oh and Sherlock... Be careful. If I have to bury you, I'll show my displeasure with the most pretentious headstone I can find."

A muffled snort from behind him and Mycroft smoothly walked out, satisfied with life.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to my fellow Sherlockian, Karagagagah. Who complains that my stories give her too many feels, so I had to write one less life-threateningly angsty. I love you Dearheart.**


	5. When I first held you

_When I first held you in my arms,_  
_if only I'd have known,_  
_the years would feel like moments,_  
_after you had grown._

* * *

His phone rung and it was normal, everyday, and mundane. Answered with a crisp, "Mycroft."

Lifeless fingers slip on the case, it tumbles to the floor. Hitching sobs and a cry.

Anthea grips his arm, talking, talking, her mouth is moving but he stares at her, it's all empty words, meaningless, and he shakes her off. Pulls himself up.

Suit, shoes. He slowly, so slowly, dresses.

He leaves his umbrella behind, and for all his care, his shirt is untucked and tie askew.

* * *

When they were small, a bird flew into the study's window. Sherlock had begged to cut it apart, to open it up and see what made it tick. He always needed to know.

Mycroft looked at his brother, the silence that was so usual between them, but this time the silence was wrong, and Mycroft felt his skin itching, wrong, as though he was trying to climb out of it, and his hand automatically tried to clench on an umbrella he'd forgotten.

He thought of the bird and giggled. Sherlock, Sherlock, always needed to know what made people tick. Well little brother, I can see what makes you tick. I can see, that big brain of yours, and I know what makes you tick and what will never make you tick again.

Anthea started, and stared at him. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, he knew how mad he must sound, didn't care. She was pale and he could see a clamminess to her skin. He hadn't seen her be ill, when had that happened? He could smell vomit, and he wanted to yell, tell her to get out and take her weakness elsewhere, but when he smelt the vomit, it was almost masked by the smell of blood and death and sweat and pain and fear.

"Sir," she whispered, her voice soft and careful, but he snarled, pushing past her. His eyes were open, but they were empty and cold, Father's eyes. Father's eyes in Sherlock's face and that wasn't right, Sherlock wasn't Father, he was life. He was life and brightness and light and he was a force that had exploded into Mycroft's life and shaped his existence forever.

Mycroft lived for Sherlock, but not anymore.

Stupid Anthea kept talking but he screamed, told her to shut up, couldn't she see the world was ending? She kept talking and was annoyed to realize that this time, he hadn't even spoken, although he meant to. In his head, he rallied against her, lashing out at her, since he couldn't yell at his brother. Not anymore, ever again.

He touched the cold, pale skin, smoothing the damp curls back from the head that was tacky with dried blood. He hadn't touched his brother like this since they were small, and he couldn't look away from the eyes, Father's eyes, broken like a glass window that had had a rock thrown through it.

Mycroft leant and kissed his brother, lips brushing the bloodied forehead, and he didn't cry.

* * *

Sherlock was buried with a pretentious headstone, just as promised. Mycroft didn't choose it however, Mummy did, and she wept the entire time.

Mycroft stood by her side, and felt nothing.

* * *

He visited Baker St and left quickly, the insults and accusations welcome because it was almost like having Sherlock back, but Sherlock had never had that much raw emotion behind his abuse.

Sherlock had never sounded as broken as John had, either. Mycroft could hear hatred and grief in John's voice, and he gathered it to him, held it close to his heart, and let it flow through him as punishment for killing his brother.

* * *

Sherlock stood in front of him, vibrant and alive, talking in a way he never had when he'd been alive, and Mycroft would have thought he had finally gone mad, but Anthea was silent and shocked as well, and he felt nothing but an odd sense of resignation.

He held the cold pack to his bruised hand even as Sherlock refused one for his jaw, seemingly taking enjoyment from the blood trickling from his mouth.

Mycroft couldn't look at the blood, stared at a point past his brother's head and tried to avoid thinking of the way Sherlock's curls had looked, matted with blood.

Everytime he looked at Sherlock, he saw a shattered skull and everything that made him tick.

But then there were plans to be made, and things to be organized, and before he knew it Sherlock was leaving, to hunt those that threatened him, and Mycroft had never felt so powerless before, sending his brother into the lion's mouth.

He knew Sherlock would never let him hug him, so he didn't ask.

* * *

The time came to part, and Mycroft hadn't said anything that wasn't related to Moriarity, and he knew Sherlock was looking at him funny, with eyes that were still sharp and alive and whole.

"I'm sorry, Brother," Sherlock whispered. He moved to touch him and Mycroft stepped back, rejecting him for the first time in their lives. He saw Sherlock recoil from him, stunned, but felt nothing.

Sherlock had reached in and scooped everything out of him, and hadn't bothered to put any of it back. He realized that he was still grieving for his brother, this changed nothing, so when Sherlock had finally left, he visited his grave and left flowers.

That's what people do, right?

* * *

He was everything he'd ever been and yet less. Months went by, he communicated with Sherlock as often as they were able, but it was tense and brief.

Later they would ask him how he had acted the part of bereaved brother so well, knowing that Sherlock wasn't dead, and he would look at them and say nothing, and think how they had no idea.

Because even though he was alive, when Mycroft thought of him, it wasn't of the smiling child, or the petulant teenager, or the stubborn adult.

He thought of him and saw shattered glass and broken lives, a trail of destruction that ended with blood and agony. His brother had died that day, and Mycroft wouldn't stop grieving until he was home safe.

* * *

_When will you be returning? MH_

_ Soon. SH_

* * *

He spoke to Lestrade and it wasn't like before.

Lestrade was drinking, heavily, and tired. They spoke of work, of politics and anything but Sherlock.

It was Mycroft who brought up John, and Lestrade just looked at him with blank eyes and said, "not fine."

The least he could do for Sherlock was to ensure that the man he was trying to save was still here when he got back, but how could Mycroft put someone else back together when time still flowed disjointedly for his as well, and they were just as broken as each other.

"Shall we bury you next to Sherlock?" he spat cruelly at John, and he heard Mrs. Hudson's gasp.

John just looked at him and Mycroft looked into his eyes and saw that broken glass again, and left before he saw the blood soaked curls again.

* * *

_He's not good MH_

_ Soon. SH_

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to come home and it would be like before.

Mycroft wasn't supposed to see the broken glass eyes again.

But he'd come home twisted and changed in a way that Mycroft recognised faintly from looking in the mirror each day, but Sherlock's was deeper and twined though out his whole being. His eyes were dead eyes, Father's eyes, echoing and cold like an icy abyss, and Mycroft felt himself being dragged into them.

He thought of a purple scarf given to a small child, but even in his memory the scarf was stained with blood.

* * *

John refused to let Sherlock into the house, and his brother had left without a word, accepting the anger. Mycroft let him in, and he could see the way Sherlock had gathered all the ill things shouted in the heat of a moment, and pulled them into himself. Not a word was spoken between them as he showed him to the guest room, but he wished he could show Sherlock the matching scars that he had and tell him he wasn't alone.

Sherlock had never had nightmares, not even as a child, but Mycroft was awoken that night by a muffled scream and a thump.

He had gone to Sherlock's room expecting to be told to piss off, but when he flicked the light on and met Sherlock's eyes, red-rimmed from crying and still shaking with fear, he longed to wipe away the tears like he had when they were small, to make this small gesture of comfort to the man he loved more than anything.

Sherlock said one word, a whimpered, "Mycroft," and it held all the loneliness of the past few months, the pain and fear, and the damage he'd taken to his soul by turning his back on everything that made him who he was, and becoming a murderer.

Sherlock lunged and grabbed Mycroft, wrapping his arms around him and crumpling into his grip. Mycroft held him tight, feeling his body shake as he sobbed. He'd done all this for John and now John didn't want him, and Mycroft felt his heart twist in a way it hadn't for years.

For the first time since standing over his brother's body years prior, Mycroft held him and cried.

Healing was a long and painful process, but it wouldn't begin until they cleared all the infection out of the wounds. Together that night, they finally became brothers again.

* * *

**One more chapter, guys. Thank you for those that have stuck with me this far, I'm still learning their voices and every review helps me get better.**

** Turnabout is fair play, Sherlock. You can't keep scaring years off poor My's life like this and not expect it to happen to you at least once ;)**


	6. You mean the world to me

_You aren't a child,__  
__though in my eyes,__  
__I guess you'll always be,__  
__that baby boy who changed my life,__  
__and means the world to me._

* * *

"But John, _bees!_"

"No, Sherlock." John adamantly refused to look at Sherlock's face, knowing exactly the look of pleading longing his flatmate would be wearing. He busied himself with fumbling with the keys to the flat, juggling the shopping, keys and his wallet unsuccessfully. "Bloody hell, can't you give me a hand?"

Sherlock slumped against the railing, pouting. "Could. Won't."

Fantastic. Just like his insufferable friend. Useless, lazy... "What was that?"

Sherlock had made a disgruntled noise, glancing at the doorframe. "Mycroft is here. Which means, we shouldn't be."

Scowling, John finally managed to get the key in the lock, and shoved open the door. "Bother you, and bother your brother. I've got milk for the fridge, I'm not dealing with you and your oddities today. Just talk to the man."

Sherlock flopped dramatically on the stoop. "Shan't." He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, and seemed to withdraw into his coat, shrinking into himself. Well and truly in sulk mode than. He could bloody well sit out here and freeze then, and see if John cared.

"Child!" yelled John, stomping up the stairs, showing his annoyance by making an unnecessary amount of noise.

Clad in the woolly jumper that Sherlock hated so much, carrying the shopping and arguing with his bothersome flatmate, John didn't appear to be much, grumpily moving towards the door. But John was a soldier, and some remaining sense of danger prickled at his skin, and he paused, right before pushing into their home. He listened intently at the door, feeling slightly foolish, but unable to ignore it.

The last time he'd felt like this... he'd gotten shot.

His fingertips brushed slightly against the door, and his eyes flickered to the handle, the tarnished metal with a slight gleam of... blood?

He froze, still holding the shopping, taking a quiet step back to slink back down to Sherlock and alert him to the intruder in their flat. He couldn't hope that they hadn't heard him crashing up the stairs, but if he could make it back to the hallway to shout...

His heart leapt into his throat as he heard a muffled thump and a pained grunt from the flat. Had someone startled the trespassers, he wondered? His hand touched the staircase banister, and came away sticky. More blood, he thought, thinking quickly. Another thump, and a shout. "John, it's cold. Come along," came the muffled shout from outside.

Sherlock, outside, because... Mycroft. John powered into action, dropping the bags with a thunk and sprinting for the flat. He shoved the door open, and leapt in, moving quickly past the door, wishing for his gun.

His mad rush caught both Mycroft and the intruder, facing off with John's armchair between them, by surprise. The intruder turned, masked and clothed in black, wicked looking knife held in hand. Mycroft was gripping the chair tightly with one hand, him umbrella with the other, and he held the latter aloft before him, almost like a weapon, John thought numbly. He didn't like the way Mycroft was standing, listing slightly to the side, and the blood had to have come from somewhere.

John shouted first, "SHERLOCK!" he roared, lunging for the masked man.

"NO!" cried Mycroft. "IT'S A TRAP!" Before John could reach them, the assassin danced forward, bringing the knife down in a slash across Mycroft's chest. John powered into them, seconds after the knife struck the elder Holmes, and all three fell to the ground.

Moments later, John was fighting for his life, rolling off Mycroft and trying frantically to keep the slashing knife away from his body. The two wrestling, John gripping the man's arms and trying to pin him down with his body weight, the other trying to squirm away.

John felt an elbow belt into his windpipe, and choked, seeing stars as pain exploded in his throat. Gasping for air, his hands slipped and he lost the upper hand, rolling away from the threat. He felt the knife skip across his arm, leaving a stuttering trail of shallow cuts.

The assassin slammed into him, knocking him down, and pinning him. He raised the knife for the killing blow, and disappearing with a sickening crunch.

John felt, rather than saw, the man slump to the ground, Sherlock standing over them, lamp in hand. It was still raised, shade crooked from striking the man. His face was deathly pale, eyes locked on a sight over John's shoulder.

"Sherlock," John gasped, but his flatmate staggered, dropping the lamp, and striding over him. John sat, panting, voice still cracked and broken from the blow.

* * *

Sherlock had heard John's cry, and had vacating the step with the speed of a cat, taking the stairs in just a few steps, and bursting into the room, John's name dying on his lips.

His eyes locked for a moment with his brother's, Mycroft standing by the armchair, John flying towards him, and the knife, slashing across Mycroft's chest, leaving a spray of blood across the fabric.

Mycroft crumpled and Sherlock lunged, moving with a wordless cry. Intruder disabled, he fell to his knees by his brother, still and silent, blood pooling around him in a growing puddle. "Mycroft, Mycroft," he murmured, frozen with fear and uselessness. "John, help me!"

His brother's eye's were closed, face bloodless. He couldn't die, not like this, it was Sherlock who was supposed to be the one who was always in danger, Sherlock who danced with death.

"Move aside, Sherlock." John was there, first aid kit with him, hands calm and sure. "Call for help, an ambulance. Now!"

Sherlock stood and backed away slightly. His hands shook as he reached into his coat and pulled out his phone, fingers leaving bloody smears on the keypad as he typed quickly.

_Been attacked at flat. Mycroft wounded. SH_

The reply was almost instant. _What? I'm on my way. Who? GL_

Sherlock glanced at the masked man, who stirred slightly, moaning. He felt a rush of fury, how dare this man lay a hand on his brother? _Never mind him. He won't be a problem much longer. SH_

* * *

"What did you do, Sherlock?" Mycroft glared at him, cranky from being cooped up in the hospital bed. He shifted, reaching for a glass of water, and hissing as it pulled at the stitches in his chest.

Sherlock handed him the glass, reclining in the chair next to the bed, smiling lazily. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"I don't believe you." Mycroft scowled. "And I don't believe Greg either, he's covering for you and I know it."

Sherlock simply shrugged, fiddling with the blanket corner. "Mmm."

His brother froze. His eyes raked over the younger Holmes, the dark shadows under his eyes, his unwashed and messy hair, and the sad state of his clothes. "Why, my dear brother," Mycroft said, smiling smugly. "I do believe you've been worried about me." Sherlock snorted.

"Hardly. But it's DULL without my archenemy around."

Mycroft laughed, the sound strange between them. They rarely laughed together. "Honestly brother, it wouldn't kill you to be nice just once. I nearly died you know, then where would you be?"

Sherlock's eyes met his, and Mycroft flinched, shocked at the pain in them. He almost missed the whisper, "I know."

And suddenly, Sherlock was standing, and his hand was on Mycroft's arm. Mycroft was frozen, stunned, such contact unheard of. He tried to speak, but his brother cut him off, and he listened with amazement at the words.

"You're my brother, My, and you've always protected me and god knows, I've needed it and..." he paused. His hand was shaking. "I've never said thank you, never even thought about saying it, until it was almost too late. Thank you."

Mycroft was stunned. His brother had just said... thank you? Perhaps he had died, and this was his reward for a lifetime of chasing Sherlock around. He smiled, shakily.

"It wasn't just you I was protecting, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock looked at him, curiously. "I've always protected you, and I always will. By protecting you and standing by your side, as long as I am able, I'm keeping myself safe as well."

"Yourself? By putting yourself in harm's way for me? It's hardly saving your life if you die saving me."

Mycroft was silent a moment, choosing his words carefully. "I promised I would, the first time I saw you." He sat upright, and pulled his brother down into a hug, holding him close. "I care about you Sherlock. And that will always be our advantage."

* * *

**For the love of my life, Carina. You're the one I'll always protect, for as long as I am able.**


End file.
